Reflections
by Le soleil brille pas pour toi
Summary: You think Harry's the only one who gets to have cool metaphysical life lessons while he's inhabiting the plane between life and death? NAH. It's Hermione's turn to get all up in her own head. [Written for the QLFC, season 6, round 9]


Author's note

Written for Season 6 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition.

Round 9: I Am Woman

Team: Pride of Portree

Position: Chaser 2

Prompt: Hermione Granger (must be main focus of story)

Optional prompts:

4\. (setting) treehouse  
12\. (scenario) an argument over what the best colour is  
13\. (dialogue) 'It's so good to be home.'

Word count (excluding author's note): 3,000

Betas: crochetaway, sekdaniels, Story Please

* * *

 **Reflections**

Hermione opened her eyes, sat up, and began trying to figure out where she was.

It didn't take her long. She had only been here once before—as a special treat for her tenth birthday—but she would never forget this place as long as she lived: the Bodleian Library at Oxford University.

She looked up at the grand arched windows, the intricate ceiling facade, the endless rows of books, and pondered her next mystery: _why_ was she at the Bodleian Library?

She had just been at Hogwarts, hadn't she? Her mind, though still foggy, spun with ideas—was it an illusion someone had cast upon her, or a magical trap she had unwittingly stepped into? Could she have she touched an errant portkey? A decidedly unmagical possibility occurred to her, and her stomach dropped—had she fallen asleep while reading during her birthday visit to the library, and Hogwarts had been one long, spectacular dream?

This alarming thought spurred her to frenzied action. She leapt from her spot on the floor and ran about the room, looking for any surface reflective enough to see herself in. Finally, she zeroed in on the shiny metal lampshade of a desk light. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that her hair fell far past her shoulders and the too-short fringe she'd had at ten was nowhere to be seen. It was only after her breathing returned to a normal rate that she realised she needn't have panicked—she was still wearing her Hogwarts uniform!

Her wits slowly but steadily returning, Hermione continued to mull over the situation. Perhaps she really had been magicked here from Scotland. But the library was completely devoid of other people, which seemed awfully unlikely. Was it closing hours? She looked towards the large stained-glass windows, trying to gauge the amount of light that was filtering through them, as she thought back to what time it had been when she was last at Hogwarts.

It had been the weekend… Harry had been about to go play a Quidditch match, so it must have been a Saturday morning… But she'd gone to the library to—

A strangled gasp escaped her throat as she remembered. She'd been trying to make her way out of the castle but hadn't gotten far from the library before running into a Ravenclaw prefect. They'd looked around a corner with the girl's pocket mirror and seen the horrible, toothy face of the basilisk peeking from the third-floor boys' bathroom.

Now she was thoroughly confused, and swiftly returning to a panicked state. According to her theory, she should have been petrified. So _what was she doing at Oxford University_?! Had she been wrong, and the basilisk's gaze had really killed her? This library certainly was what she'd consider to be heaven…

Before her hyperventilation could rise to a crescendo, Hermione willed herself to calm down. If she knew one thing, it was that a library was the perfect place to look for answers. She was certainly at a disadvantage; this Muggle library would be of no help in researching magical illusions or transportation. However, it couldn't hurt to look. She decided to check the medicine section to see if there was anything on hallucinations during near-death experiences.

'Hundreds of six, we're past stones and sticks; six-ten, we'll fix you again.' As she walked along the shelves, she chanted the rhyme she'd invented years ago to memorise the Dewey Decimal Classification. Arriving at a row labeled with the number 610, she began poring over titles.

She swiftly ran into trouble with this simplest of research tasks; most of the books had blank spines. She picked one up and opened it to find the pages inside were blank as well. Was Oxford trying to make their book collection look bigger than it really was? She picked up a book that did have a title— _An Introduction to Physiology_ —but found only the first few dozen pages filled in, with basic information that she already knew.

Baffled by this strange collection of books, Hermione turned to seek out a different section to peruse but was startled to see Professor McGonagall watching her.

'Professor! Thank goodness you're here! What's going on?'

'Follow me, Miss Granger, and I'll show you.' McGonagall strode briskly towards the largest window at the back of the room and Hermione scrambled to follow. When she reached it, McGonagall simply stepped over the low wall, hiking her robe up to keep from tripping over its hem, and walked right through the pane. Hermione stepped up onto the ledge but when she attempted to follow her head of house, she only smacked her head painfully against the decidedly solid glass.

' _Ouch_! Professor, wait!' she cried. She could hear voices on the other side but they were too muffled to distinguish what was being said. She stooped to look through the palest of the panes of stained glass, a yellow one at navel height. Through it, she could make out McGonagall talking to two others—it was Harry and Ron! Her heart leapt; if she could just get through, she could tell them about her discovery and they could save the school!

She took in the scene as best she could through the tinted glass. The room on the other side seemed to be the Hogwarts infirmary. Her friends and McGonagall were surrounding a hospital bed. Hermione squinted, trying to see who was in it.

When Ron shifted left and revealed a highly recognisable head of fluffy hair, Hermione was shocked for only a moment. Of _course_ it was her! It all made sense once she thought about it. She really had been petrified, and this library, however real it felt, was but a dream. Maybe magical comas could produce hyperreal dreams. And could the scene through the window be a representation of what her petrified senses were able to take in? She would have so much to research when she woke up!

She turned away from the window and sighed. 'If I'm dreaming, then I suppose there's nothing to do but wait,' she reasoned aloud. Of course, she didn't have to just stay here. She _had_ always wanted to try lucid dreaming…

Hermione closed her eyes and willed herself to appear in Diagon Alley. When she opened them—it hadn't worked. She was still in the library. Maybe she had to start smaller. She shut her eyes again and pictured a plate of biscuits on the table nearest her. Again, nothing happened.

She made her way to the other end of the room, swiftly growing desperate to be anywhere but here. When she found the only exit to be locked, she patted her robe pocket, searching for her wand, but it wasn't on her person. At this, she cried aloud in frustration. Why was her mind doing this to her?

Not content to simply sit around, Hermione began to search the library. For what, she didn't know. Mostly, she just wanted to keep herself occupied while her mind wrapped itself around this situation.

For hours, she wandered the room, examining every nook and cranny and looking at all the books. She soon forgot her earlier ire and lost herself in the contents. She came to realise that the books only contained information that she already knew. Much of it she had learned in school or through reading, but there were also vast sections dedicated to detailing her personal memories.

When she finally finished looking around the room, she felt exhausted. She didn't seem to need food here, but physically, she was spent. She looked around for somewhere comfortable to sit but saw only hard-backed desk chairs. 'Don't tell me I'm stuck here for who knows how long with nowhere to rest,' she lamented to the room.

Finally, it responded to her will. A small wooden structure appeared in an empty area near the window. It looked familiar to her—where had she seen it before? When she looked inside she saw an assortment of bean bag chairs, picture books, and stuffed animals, and that's when it hit her. This was her childhood treehouse! Without the tree, that is. That's why she hadn't recognised it from the outside—she'd never seen it at a level angle before now.

'Why this, of all things?' she asked herself, quite literally.

She went inside, plopped down onto a bean bag chair, and suddenly felt worlds better, just being in a familiar place amidst all the uncertainty. If she faced the wall opposite the door, she could see a patch of green stained glass through the window that looked a bit like tree leaves; it almost seemed as if she was in her back garden, falling asleep in the treehouse as she'd done many times before. Now she understood why her mind had conjured it up—it'd be unnerving to find herself all alone in Hogwarts or in her parents' house, but this treehouse was a place she was accustomed to being in on her own, and in that way, it was the most comforting setting she could find herself in now.

'It's so good to be home,' she whispered aloud as she drifted to sleep.

* * *

In next few days, Hermione took to spending her time in the only productive way she could think of—since the library contained only things she already knew, she could continue studying for her exams. Every day, she would nestle into her favourite bean bag chair in the treehouse and bury her nose in revision.

At first, this worked fine to solidify facts—things that her memory had only a tenuous hold on, she was able to review until they came to her more quickly. But when she needed bits of knowledge that she'd completely forgotten, or thought of tangential topics she wanted to learn about to complement the main topics, she was out of luck. It was frustrating, but what else could she do while she was here? At least she would have half her studying done when she woke up, and could fill in the gaps later.

After a few weeks, however, with nothing else to occupy her time, Hermione reached a point where she had to admit for perhaps the first time in her life that there was simply no point in studying any longer. The information available on her exam topics was so ingrained in her memory she could practically recite it word for word. She resented her own mind for trapping her here; she used to love this library, but after this, she'd never be able to look at it the same way again.

Hermione had, of course, spent plenty of time alone in her life—she couldn't be described as a 'popular' person. But all that time spent alone was spent enjoyably, productively: learning new things or experiencing other worlds through fiction. This torturous library was filled to the brim with books, but there was nothing to be learned from them! What good was a library that couldn't teach you anything? How would she pass the time while she waited to awaken?

After a few fretful days moping in her treehouse, Hermione's boredom won out and she ventured out once more to bring some different books back to her hideaway. At first, she spent some time refreshing herself on previous years' school topics, working her way back to her Muggle education. But when she began to look through the books with her personal memories, she found it fascinating to experience her life in narrative form. Some of the books covering her time at Hogwarts were so thrilling they could be published as adventure novels!

She quickly became enthralled in her life story, and as the weeks passed she favoured its section of the library more and more. The earliest years of her life were fairly sparse of memories, but the further she progressed through the tomes the more detail there was. Reading her memories in this way allowed a separation from how she normally recalled them, letting her remove herself and react as if she were reading about someone else. She snickered at the tale of her seven-year-old self attempting to gather her classmates during lunch one day to teach them what she'd learned at a museum on the weekend. At the time she'd been hurt by their inattentiveness, but now it just seemed funny. No wonder she hadn't been popular—what seven-year-old would want to sit still and learn during playtime?

When she reached the day she'd met her friend Gemma, her heart swelled. Gemma had moved to Hermione's school at age nine, and when Hermione showed her around, as she liked to do for new students, they had become good friends. Hermione looked forward to reliving their friendship—the sleepovers, the school projects, the silly arguments they liked to have…

Only now that she was reading about them, the arguments didn't seem so silly. They seemed like Gemma getting fed up with being bossed around. When this occurred to Hermione, she dropped the book she was on and fled the treehouse, heading for the memory book section. She found the most recent volume and brought it back to her reading spot, then flipped through until she found the last time she'd seen Gemma: just this summer, before coming back to Hogwarts. It had been in this very treehouse; she had come over so that Hermione could help prepare a birthday present for Gemma's mother.

 _'I'm going to colour in the wrapping paper myself,' she told Hermione proudly. 'That way I can make it just how Mum would like.'_

 _She got to work, drawing in a pattern of flowers. Hermione picked up a blue coloured pencil and moved to begin filling in the petals, but Gemma stopped her. 'I was going to do them in red and orange, actually,' she said, 'to match the flowers in Mum's kitchen window box.'_

 _Hermione considered this, and disagreed. 'But I see your mum wearing blue all the time, and lots of your furniture and pillows and things are blue. I think it would be the best colour to use.'_

 _Gemma rolled her eyes. 'I think I'd know what my own mum would like best,' she huffed._

 _'Trust me on this,' Hermione said firmly. 'Even if it's not your mum's favourite colour, it's just a better colour overall. Psychological research has shown that colours like red and orange can cause agitation, but blue is calming. Don't you want your mum to have a calm, relaxed birthday?'_

 _She leaned in again with her blue pencil and Gemma shrieked and pulled the paper away. 'If you're going to be like that, I'll finish this on my own!' She collected her things and left Hermione in the treehouse._

Hermione slammed her memory book shut and fled the treehouse, almost expecting to find Gemma outside. Reliving that memory in the same place where it had occurred had given it a particularly visceral edge, and Hermione was reeling from it. At the time, she hadn't been able to reflect much on the dispute—Gemma had never stormed off like that, but Hermione had consoled herself that she only wanted what was best for her friend and that Gemma would come around like she always did. When Hermione got to Hogwarts she was swept up in its magic and forgot all about the summertime. Now, living that moment again, it was clear that she'd gone about it entirely the wrong way, and she wasn't sure Gemma would forgive her this time.

For the next few days, she couldn't bear to re-enter her treehouse; it was too painful. She abandoned her memory books as well, instead returning half-heartedly to her studying efforts. She spent long, back-aching hours at one of the library desks, trying and largely not succeeding to focus on revision. Though she hadn't so much as looked at another memory book, memories kept flooding her mind anyway, and she thought of times she'd butted heads with her peers. She'd only ever been trying to help others, but what good did that do if she was too irritating to listen to?

She regretted her previous animosity towards the library for not containing any new information. As it turned out, she could learn valuable new things from reflecting on the old.

Hermione resolved to change her ways, not only for her own good but for the good she could effect by communicating her knowledge in a more palatable way. She'd have to see Gemma as soon as she got home that summer and try to salvage the friendship she held so dearly.

It was after coming to these decisions that Hermione stood from her uncomfortable desk chair, intending to return to the cozy treehouse, but when she turned around it had disappeared. 'No!' she called out. 'Please, don't take away my home! I didn't mean to abandon it!'

In response, the stained-glass window began to glow faintly. Hermione ran over to look through it. It was becoming almost too bright to see, but she could just make out Madam Pomfrey standing over her petrified figure and administering a potion.

'Does this mean—'

She opened her eyes in the hospital wing. '—I'm cured?'

Madam Pomfrey had already moved to the next bed. 'I dare say so, Miss Granger.'

Hermione let out a victorious cry and got up, feeling a bit stiff but determined to exercise her return to freedom.

'I think not, young lady! You'll need to remain under observation for at least—'

'Five minutes?' came a voice from the doorway.

Professor McGonagall stood there, beaming tearfully at the students who had been returned to consciousness. 'Mr Potter and Mr Weasley have saved the day, and you're all expected in the Great Hall at once for a celebratory feast.'

Hermione grinned at her head of house, who smiled at her knowingly. Before Madam Pomfrey could protest, she ran from the room to go see her friends.

* * *

A/N: I hope this doesn't come across as Hermione-bashing to anyone. I just tried to think about what kind of life lesson she might learn at this point in the series, and you've got to admit, she was more than a little overbearing in her first few years. I see a lot of myself in Hermione, and I wish I'd had a similar revelation to this a lot sooner than I did in my life!

Side note—does anyone else think it made zero sense for Hermione's reaction to exam cancelation being to say 'oh no'? She would have woken up with only three days to catch up on a month or more of missed material! I think it makes a bit more sense with my studying-in-her-head theory, but still. :P


End file.
